Fade to Black
by darke wulf
Summary: “So you don’t really hate Muggles and Mud...Muggle-born wizards?” “Oh, I do loathe them...I do not, however, see any point in killing them. As long as they are willing to accept their true positions in life and bow down before me, that is,” I
1. Fade to Black

_Disclaimer:  I don't own it.  I'm not making any money from it.  Let's call it a wash._   
  
  
**Fade to Black**   
by: darke wulf   
__

I.  
We are the hollow men  
We are the stuffed men  
Leaning together  
Headpieces filled with straw.  
Alas!  
Our dried voices, when  
We whisper together  
Are quiet and meaningless  
As wind in dry grass  
Or rats' feet over broken glass  
In our dry cellar  
Shape without form, shade without color,  
Paralyzed force, gesture without motion;  
Those who have crossed  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom  
Remember us--if at all--not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men. 

~~~*~~~

There is a darkness in Him now; a shadow in His emerald eyes that wasn't there before.  
  
I seem to be the only one to notice, though.  I watch as the Holy Trinity approach the train; the Weasel and Mudblood are chattering obliviously at each other, arguing over some irritatingly pointless matter while He trails quietly after them.  They haven't picked up on His reticence, or else are trying to ignore it.  I'm guessing it's the latter option.  Those two have always tried to ignore what they weren't quite sure how to deal with.  When confronted by troublesome situations they have always turned to Him for leadership, letting Him take action while they stood back and watched.  
  
Griffindors, hah.  It's easy to be brave when someone else is doing all the work.  
  
I study Him openly through the window of the compartment I have claimed on the Hogwarts Express.  None of my compatriots have arrived as yet, which leaves me free to do as I will without fear of word leaking back to my father.  
  
His footsteps drag and He falls farther and farther behind his so-called friends; He fears to board the train, He fears what the coming year will bring.  
  
As well He should.  For even if the You-Know-Who decides to break with tradition and does not try to kill Him this year, a prospect I do not find likely, this is going to be a difficult year for the Golden One.  Even now it has started; a hushed silence precedes Him as our schoolmates stare with suspicion, disappointment and, in some extreme cases, hatred as He passes them with his head bowed, unwilling to meet their accusing glares.  When He has safely passed the whispers start, poorly hidden behind raised hands.  
  
It's been over three months but the school, the entire Wizarding World for that matter, is still reeling.  The unthinkable has happened: the Savior, the Chosen One, He who was to save us all from Evil, has turned out to be nothing more than a mere mortal.  He failed, and because of His failure a boy died and the Dark Lord has fully returned.  Who else is there to blame?  Who else can we possibly hold responsible?  
  
Certainly not the great Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry who, in spite of being the most powerful wizard alive, repeatedly sent a pre-teen to fight You-Know-Who.  Nor let us blame the Minister of Magic, even though he refuses to so much as admit that He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named has returned; nor the many Aurors, so-called defenders of the Light, who have done nothing to stop the Dark Lord's steady rise.  
  
~~~*~~~ 

_II.  
Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom  
These do not appear:  
There, the eyes are  
Sunlight on a broken column  
There, is a tree swinging  
And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star.  
Let me be no nearer  
In death's dream kingdom  
Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves  
In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer--  
Not that final meeting  
In the twilight kingdom_

~~~*~~~

No, instead let us blame a child who didn't know that magic was real until he was eleven, who never protested when responsibility for the safety and well being of the world was placed solely on his shoulders, who actually allowed himself to be convinced that he **_should_** be held responsible.  
  
Naturally, it is all His fault.  It is His fault that Diggory died; it is His fault that You-Know-Who has returned; and, even worse, it is His fault that everyone is now left searching for answers to questions they hoped to never ask.  
  
He protected their little realms of make-believe for longer than I'd anticipated.  Time and again he defied the odds, arising victorious when I would have wagered my soul that he wouldn't survive.  And each time He did, the world began to rely upon Him a little bit more.  Everyone surrendered themselves to the fantasy that a single child would save them from evil and now that He has failed they've been forced to realize just how wrong they were.  
  
And yet, of anyone, His failure has hit Him the hardest.  He is drowning in his guilt even as shadow-filled eyes implore those whom He once called friends to understand that He tried His best.  They do not need to accuse Him, though they do anyway, for nothing they can say to Him can be worse than the insults that are flying around inside His own head.  He believes the shit that has been whispered into his ear since his first year.  He genuinely thinks that it is up to Him to defeat the Dark Lord, to protect the world from Evil and harm.  And He cannot bear the fact that He was unable to do so.  He hates himself because He could not achieve the impossible, because alone He could not do what an entire army had been unable to accomplish before him.  
  
Cedric Diggory was not the only one who was mortally wounded that night.  A piece of Hogwarts' Golden Boy suffered the same fate, though it has taken it longer to die than it did Diggory.  But it is dieing, none the less; His more Griffindorish half, that part that made Him leap into battles He had no real chance of winning, just because He thought it was the right thing to do, that part that asked, "How high?" instead of "Why should I?"  It is slowly withering away, while His **_other_** half gradually takes control.

~~~*~~~

_III.  
This is the dead land  
This is cactus land  
Here the stone images  
Are raised, here they receive  
The supplication of a dead man's hand  
Under the twinkle of a fading star.  
Is it like this  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone._

~~~*~~~

You can see the signs now, if you look closely enough.  Every so often, even as He shrinks from the angry glares of His fellow students, a dark sneer appears on His face, partially hidden by His bowed head and black mop of hair.  It is a look that is far more natural to my own face than His, clearly demanding to know what gives anyone the right to judge Him and His actions when they know nothing of the horrors that He has had to face.  It is the darker part of His soul; that which caused Him to almost be placed in Slytherin House, coming to the front.  
  
It is something I have been waiting for since He rejected my offer of friendship in our first year.  
  
I knew that this day would come.  I knew that His 'destiny' would eventually cause a rift between Him and His friends.  For you cannot battle evil and hope to be successful without embracing it, at least to a certain extent.  If you have no understanding of your enemy, you cannot possibly hope to defeat it, a concept that is completely alien to the members of the House of Griffindor.  
  
All but one, that is.  The Golden Boy realized that truth, though nearly too late.  And so he began to learn the ways of his enemy and, in doing so, tarnished his own image.  He is deeper in spirit now than any of them, he is no longer like they are, shallow in their 'goodness'.  They can no longer understand Him, He has become to complex, and that scares them.  
  
Oh, sure, they flocked to Him when He was their apparent Heir, when they thought He was pure and noble and perfect, the ideal leader to raise Griffindor House to new heights of glory while they all settled back and rode His coattails.  Now that he has changed, they have no more use for Him.  He can no longer be simply classified as 'good', he is more than that and so, He is not to be trusted.  He is not the 'perfect' Griffindor they thought Him to be.  
  
You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, my father included, have also altered their perceptions of the Boy-Who-Lived since His failure, no longer fearing Him as they once did.  They have become far too overconfident, mistaking one battle for the war.  
  
It is these misconceptions that will eventually lead to the ruin of them all, for I am not so easily fooled.  

~~~*~~~

_IV.  
The eyes are not here  
There are no eyes here  
In this valley of dying stars  
In this hollow valley  
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms  
In this last of meeting places  
We grope together  
and avoid speech  
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river  
Sightless, unless  
The eyes reappear  
As the perpetual star  
Multifoliate rose  
Of death's twilight kingdom  
The hope only  
Of empty men._

~~~*~~~

Where the world sees a broken, useless child, I see a young man full of promise, willing to listen to reason for the first time in His life.  He no longer blindly accepts the words of Dumbledore.  He is questioning what He is told; He is demanding to be shown proof.  

~~~*~~~

_V.  
Here we go round the prickly pear  
Prickly pear prickly pear  
Here we go round the prickly pear  
At five o'clock in the morning._

~~*~~

He has experienced first hand how little difference there truly is between the 'Light' and the 'Dark'.  He is now looked upon with suspicion and hatred, just because in His attempt to do the impossible He had to change.  He had to learn Unforgivable Curses, and He had to develop the will to use them.  People recognize that in Him, and it frightens them.  And, as people have done throughout history, what they fear, they soon come to hate.

~~~*~~~

_ Between the idea  
And the reality  
Between the motion  
And the act  
Falls the shadow  
                                For Thine is the Kingdom_

~~~*~~~

He is finally beginning to realize how unreasonable the demands of the world are and that realization, coupled with the scorn of His former friends, is causing a storm of resentment to brew within Him.  A storm which, while currently contained, will soon grow in strength and fury until it will be unleashed upon the world at large.

~~~*~~~

_Between the conception  
And the creation  
Between the emotion  
And the response  
Falls the Shadow  
                                                Life is very long_

~~~*~~~

He is not broken, nor is He defeated; He has merely lost His way.  

~~~*~~~

_Between the desire  
And the spasm  
Between the potency  
and the existence  
Between the essence  
And the descent  
Falls the Shadow  
                                For Thine is the Kingdom_

~~~*~~~

And it will be I who takes His hand and leads Him back to the path of His destiny.  For, like any good Slytherin, I have my own ambitions, and a plan through which I intend to turn them into reality.

~~~*~~~

_For Thine is_

~~~*~~~

And step one in that plan is to bind Him to **_my_** cause.

~~~*~~~

_Life is_

~~~*~~~

Yes, now He will listen, now He will finally hear.  

~~~*~~~

_For Thine is the_

~~~*~~~

This time, Harry Potter will not refuse the hand of Draco Malfoy and together, we will be unstoppable.

~~~*~~~

_This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends  
This is the way the world ends  
Not with a bang but a whimper.  
  
- 'The Hollow Men', T.S. Eliott_

~~~*~~~   
  
  
~el fin~ 

  


_Author's Notes:  So there you go, my first Harry Potter piece.  Drop me a review and let me know what you think._


	2. And in the Darkness Bind Them

_Disclaimer:  I don't own Harry Potter or any of the associated characters or locations.  The title comes from JRR Tolkien's masterpiece 'The Lord of the Rings' trilogy...great books._

  
**_Fade to Black, Chapter Two:_  
  
And in the Darkness Bind Them**  
by:  darke wulf 

~~*~~

_"It is a revenge the devil sometimes takes upon the virtuous, that he entraps them by the force of the very passion they have suppressed and think themselves superior to."  
~George Santyana_

~~*~~

  


"If you turn to page 365 in you texts, you'll find..."  
  
Snape's voice drones on in the chilly dungeon classroom, echoing slightly off the bare stone walls.  I have a well-practiced look of rapture on my face, but if asked I couldn't have repeated any of the lecture to this point.  I know we're making a lighter-than-air potion; that's all the information I need.  Unlike some I could mention, I **_excel_** at potions.  I enjoy the cold logic behind them, the precision and thought required to produce one correctly.  It is an actual challenge, mentally stimulating like little else I have experienced at this sorry excuse for a school.  
  
Snape's lectures, however, are not.  As I desperately try to keep occupied while awaiting his permission to begin working I glance around the classroom, noticing that the Golden Boy still hasn't made it to class.  Fifteen minutes late already, at this point he'd be better off not coming.  
  
Of course, if he doesn't come, all my carefully laid plans will go to ruin.  After letting him suffer through two and a half weeks of near universal loathing and isolation, I decided to begin my campaign to win's Potter's allegiance.  It would be just like that ungrateful bastard to not show up.  
  
I relax in my chair and let my mind wander, without actually **_looking_** like it, of course, until the slam of a door rather rudely breaks me from my near-doze.  
  
"Ah, Mr. Potter...so good of you to decide to grace us with your illustrious presence.  That's 20 points from Griffindor for your tardiness."  
  
It's about damn time.  If looks could kills, Snape would be nothing but a bad memory by now.  I must admit, I've been finding myself more and more impressed with the recent improvements in Potter's glares.  I wonder if he practices in a mirror at night?  For someone who used to look as if he was suffering from indigestion whenever he tried to look intimidating, he's become terribly good at making a person know exactly how displeased he is with them.  I wonder if Potter's aware of how much hatred there is trapped inside his own heart, just begging to be finally let out.  Probably not, he's quite the textbook case in denial.  
  
Of course, having suffered through nearly all of his worst attempts, I am perhaps the best qualified to notice the differences in his 'death glare'.  Really, now that I think of it, I should charge him for all the tutoring I gave him over the years in proper glaring techniques.  
  
"If you would be so good as to take your seat, Mr. Potter.  Or do I need to take yet more points from Griffindor for your insubordination?  If you keep with your present behavior, it will require you being called upon to once again save the world to earn back all the points you are going to lose your House this year.  You truly are setting new lows for ineptitude, Mr. Potter."  
  
I smirk at that.  Snape's right.  Ever since classes started, Potter's done nothing but glower at people and lose House Points.  Not that I'm complaining, mind.  I would have no problem with Slytherin finally winning the House Cup this year.  DO you have any idea how irritating it is to have the Cup in your hands, only to have it ripped away from you at the last moment?  I do.  Let me tell you, it is not an enjoyable experience.  Dumbledore could have at least awarded the Terrible Trio their points **_before_** the presentation ceremony.  To let us think we had won the Cup; to put us through such humiliation and pain; I don't think that I will ever forgive Dumbledore for that.  
  
My thoughts return to the present, and I notice that Potter has taken a seat at the only empty table in the room.  Typical.  He has been alone, isolated, since he arrived at Hogwarts; the combined effect of the students' fear of him coupled with his own desire for solitude.  He has tired of dealing with the incompetent idiots around us, not that I blame him.  Unfortunately, I am currently included in his list of incompetent idiots, which won't do at all.  
  
This is why I am currently sitting at the only other table, besides Potter's, without two people.  Normally Pansy would be serving as my partner, or at least sitting in the seat beside me.  As I would never be stupid enough to allow her to even think of trying to 'help' make a potion, partner might not be the appropriate word.  In any event, a small dose of Nauseo Potion in her pumpkin juice at breakfast ensures that she will spend most of this morning in the restroom.  
  
It was a risk, I admit, assuming that Potter would be the other odd man out, but only a small one.  None of the other Slytherin would dare to risk doing anything that might make it appear as if they are trying to move in on Pansy's spot as my partner, and the associated rank within the House hierarchy.  Not that they wouldn't love to move up in the ranks, but they wouldn't be so blatant about it.  Meanwhile, the Griffindors have been ignoring Potter's existence all year, leaving him to work alone in class.  Now my only concerns are that Snape either decides to make up the groups on his own, or else decides to have Potter and I work individually rather than 'subject' me to working with Potter.  
  
Snape's lips straighten into a thin line as he glances around the classroom, then he send a quick look of apology my way.  Success.  "Mr. Potter, if you would be so kind as to move up front next to Mr. Malfoy.  The two of you will be partners today.  Perhaps, with Mr. Malfoy's assistance, you might actually be able to brew a potion correctly for once."  
  
The rest of the Slytherin snicker as Potter gathers his things and stalks towards me.  I, however, do not.  Instead I begin the initial preparations required for our potion, keeping my face nearly neutral; I allow only a smaller version of my usual smirk to curl my lips.  It wouldn't do to appear too friendly.  I don't want to arouse Potter's suspicions and, even as dense as he is, me smiling jovially at him would certainly arouse his suspicions.  
  
Without looking at my erstwhile partner I begin to work, taking up a cupful of crickets' legs, mixing them with dried moth wings, and grinding up the combination.  "If it's not too much of an inconvenience, Potter, would you mind heating the dragon saliva?"  
  
He turns towards me, his now omnipresent-scowl on his face, and is about to make what I am sure is, in his mind, a scathing retort when Snape glides over to our desk.  "Problems, gentlemen?"  
  
I look up at him with the appropriate amount of noble suffering on my face.  "No, Professor, not yet at least.  We were just getting started."  
  
That shocked them both.  They obviously expected me to start complaining about Potter's...well...existence.  I absently make a mental note to make it up to Snape by sabotaging Longbottom's potion should an opportunity present itself.  Snape really does look forward to taking points from Griffindor.  It's a shame I have to disappoint him.  
  
Snape's eyes narrow, and he looks at me with an all too thoughtful expression on his face...he obviously suspects something.  Finally, he mutters, "Very well, get back to work," and walks off.  
  
Potter stares at me for a moment, and I am forced to literally bite my tongue to keep from blurting out a scathing insult, but eventually he slowly shifts his gaze down to the page I have my potions text opened to and turns to the same page in his own book.  He looks with confusion between the rather simple die on page 364 and the lighter-than-air potion on page 365.  
  
I deliberately move my finger onto page 365, tracing the words as if reading through the potion ingredients.  It doesn't take Potter too long, for a Griffindor at least, to finally get a bloody clue and start reading the appropriate instructions.  I take a deep breath, silently exhaling as I remind myself that he can't possibly remain a naïve fool forever and in time hw will make a powerful ally.  
  
**_Finally_** he places our cauldron above the torch, measures out two cups of drool, and lights the flame.  
  
"Excellent work, Potter," I drawl.  I simply can't help myself, all this denial of my natural instincts can't possibly be healthy and besides, I justify to myself, I can't seem too friendly at this early stage.  "Maybe next you can try something difficult…like stirring."  
  
"Shut up, Malfoy," he growls, thought I am certain that I detect a hint of relief in his voice.  It strikes me then that I am probably the only person, at least among the students, who is treating him the same way I always have.   Or nearly so, at least.  
  
We go back to our potion, with the odd insult thrown in every now and then.  I deliberately make mine less personal than I have in the past, not mentioning his dead parents or Diggory even once.  I must say, I am rather proud of myself.  
  
Potter, meanwhile, looks to almost be enjoying himself.  He is still glaring but, rather than his more vicious 'I-hate-the-world' glare he has reverted back to his old 'I-can't-stand-Draco-Malfoy' glare.  And a half-hearted one at that.  I mentally pat myself on the back; phase one has gone according to plan.  
  
Finally class ends.  Snape come over to check our potion and nods approvingly at me.  Apparently we were the only group to actually get the thing right.  Of course, the extra eagle bone marrow I threw into Granger and Longbottom's potion when no one was looking might have had something to do with that.  "Excellent work, Mr. Malfoy.  Ten point to Slytherin…and five to Griffindor for not screwing things up."  I wonder if awarding points to Griffindor actually causes Snape physical pain.  From the look on his face, it must.  
  
Potter and I clean up, continuing in our unique state of contentious harmony.  As I turn to leave I pause, momentarily considering giving Potter a 'good job'.  In the end, I settle for a respectful nod, my eyes locked on his.  He looks more than a little surprised, but recovers in time to give a nod of his own.  As I walk towards the door and exit the classroom, I can feel his questioning eyes on the back of my head as he tries to burn a hole into my mind to learn the cause for my near civility, as he tries to gauge my true intentions.  
  
I silently wish him luck; he will need it if he is ever to truly comprehend **_my_** mind.  And, as for my true intentions…  
  
…he won't learn those until it is far too late to do any good.  
  
  
~el fin~  
  
  
  
_Author's Notes:  I really didn't intend on writing any more after what has become the first chapter of 'Fade to Black', but I received so many encouraging reviews/emails that I sat down one day to see if I could at least outline a possible plot for a longer storyline.  Two hours later, this was the result.  I hope you all enjoy it, or at least don't hate it too much.  
  
As always, please read and review!_


	3. Ebony Descent

_Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the associated characters or locations._

  
**_Fade to Black, Chapter Three:_**

**Ebony Descent**   
by: darke wulf

~*~  
  
_"So farewell hope, and with hope, farewell fear,  
Farewell remorse! All good to me is lost;  
Evil, be thou my Good: by thee at least  
Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,   
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;  
As Man ere long, and this new World, shall know."  
  
~John Milton_   
  
~*~

The early-December air is crisp, and the stars shine brightly despite the few snowflakes that gently flutter from the sky to join their brethren on the whitened ground. As I lay on one of the benches strategically placed throughout the Hogwarts' gardens, my back becoming cold and damp as the snow I had been too lazy to clear away melts and penetrates my winter cloak, one solitary thought runs through my head.

My father is a fucking bastard.

I just received an owl post from dear Lucius that left me desperately trying to rethink the next year and a half in the hopes of preventing my plans for the future from shattering like so much cheap glass. I had had everything laid out perfectly, my plans were on schedule to see me installed as the new Ruler of the World by my twenty-first birthday, give or take a month or two. Then I find out from my 'loving' father that I am to be given the honor of receiving the Dark Mark when I return home for the Holiday Break.

That insufferable git. I shouldn't have to worry about receiving the Dark Mark until my eighteenth birthday; Voldemort **_never_** initiates 'children' into the Death Eaters. It had been a fact that I had been counting on. I had assumed that by the time it was my turn to bend my knee to Voldemort Potter would have killed him again, or that at least there would be a nice, convenient war of 'Good' versus 'Evil' for me to use to my advantage. But no, my dear father had to go and convince the Dark Lord that I was more than ready to officially join their little men's club.

As if. I will _** not**_ be some pitifully disgusting puppet, kissing the boots of a wizard not fit to shake my hand, just because my father is content with the small amount of power the Dark Lord deigns to give him. Lucius Malfoy is a disgrace to the our family name. Worse than a disgrace, he is an unambitious coward. The Malfoy family should be ruling the world, not hiding behind the robes of a mangy half-breed. There is no fucking way I am going to let that...thing brand me. No one owns Draco Malfoy.

Of course, this puts me in the rather precarious position of having less than three weeks to figure out some way to avoid the inevitable without endangering my plans for world domination. Argh!

I hastily sit up, grab a handful of the now-firmly compressed snow I had been laying on and throw it out into the inky black night. It isn't nearly satisfying enough. I need something to beat up, to make bleed, to utterly destroy. Where's the Weasel when you really need him?

I sigh and slouch down, elbows on my knees, and rest my head in my gloved hands. I must calm down and think rationally; the situation is far from unsalvageable. There must be a way out; there always is, it's only a matter of recognizing it.

Now then, what is the problem? That I am apparently to be initiated into the Death Eaters almost two years sooner than I had originally anticipated. What caused the problem? My father's nauseating need to prove to Voldemort the loyalty of our family. Is it possible to convince my father to not insist on my receiving the Mark? Not without doing something that would result in me being disinherited and losing my claim to the Malfoy fortune which is, quite frankly, unacceptable. Would it be possible to convince _** Voldemort**_ that it would not be wise for me to receive the Mark at this time? Possibly, if it weren't for my Father.

Hmmm....and there is it. A rather simple solution, when you think about it. It's just going to require a great deal of careful thought, not to mention a lot of luck, to ensure that neither Voldemort nor any of his Death Eaters come to suspect anything. I am not ready to confront him as yet. Actually, I rather hope to avoid confronting him altogether, assuming Potter ever gets around to taking care of his end of things.

I nod my head slightly as I make my decision. It really is the only way to keep my plans on schedule. I suppose I should feel slightly guilty, but it's not really my fault. Lucius brought this on himself; I'm merely reacting to a situation he instigated.

I finally stand, brush the snow off my cloak, and make my way back to the school, my course set and new plans already forming in my head.

*******

I smirk with self-satisfaction as I watch Potter stalk between the trees, each furious breath condensing into a little cloud of vapor and floating up to disappear into the branches of the Forest. It had taken me over two weeks to find his little getaway, a clearing deep enough into the Forbidden Forest that only an idiotic Gryffindor with no sense of self-preservation would venture there.

Or a Slytherin with a Golden Boy to corrupt.

I had originally planned on confronting Potter before the Holiday break. Then that irritating Dark Mark issue had come up, and I had spent the time before the break working to ensure that the whole Draco-becoming-a-Death-Eater fantasy of my Father's never became a reality. Thus I wound up having to postpone my heart-to-heart with Potter until after I returned, which appears to have been to my advantage after all.

Potter had been one of only nine students who decided to remain at the school; the only other Gryffindor who stayed had been a first year who could never work up the nerve to bother the 'Boy-Who-Lived'. Which meant by the time his adoring, and not so adoring, public returned to Hogwarts, Potter had had three weeks of undoubtedly blissful solitude. Three weeks of not being expected to save the world, always do the 'right' thing, or be perfect. Three weeks of not having to deal with the doe-eyed stares of one half of the school or the accusational glares of the rest. Three weeks of being able to just be Harry Potter without having to explain his every thought and action.

So of course upon their return, it took the rest of the students a little more than a week to drive him back to the point of near-insanity.

*******

From what I could tell, his nightly romps had started about a month into the term. After walking around like a particularly volatile potion for weeks, Potter had finally exploded one night at dinner after an innocent, if constantly repeated, inquiry into his health by the Mudblood. He had rushed from the Great Hall and, from the interrogation he had received the next morning, I learned he hadn't bothered to return to the Gryffindor Tower all night. He, of course, completely ignored his tag-alongs' demands for answers, and stared off into space with an emotionless face that was almost up to my own standards.

Over the next several nights it became obvious that he continued to go somewhere at night. He was almost never at breakfast, and he developed bags under his eyes so large it made him look as if he had been punched in the face. He continued to ignore the Mudblood and Weasel, and the school in general. He even went so far as to ignore _** me**_ when I tried to talk with him. I had even been civil...relatively speaking of course. As if I had ever done anything to deserve his indifference. Enmity of course, but indifference; I don't think so.

After several failed attempts at following him to where ever he was going, that damn invisibility cloak of his made it impossible as he had at some point developed the ability to walk quietly, no doubt just to irritate me, I had finally given up. The next morning in Potions I had Goyle trip Potter as he entered the classroom. As he hit the ground, I placed a levitating spell on his glasses, making it look as if they had simply fallen off his face and skidded along the floor in my general direction. Moving quickly, before the Mudblood or Weasel could act, I picked up the glasses and sauntered slowly towards Potter. Not moving my lips, I whispered a chant under my breath to infuse a tracking spell into the bloody things. He would _** not**_ be getting away from me again.

When I was near enough, I handed the spectacles over to him with a smirk. "I believe you dropped these."

Potter hesitantly took the glasses back, looking for all the world as if he expected me to bite his arm off. Then he inspected them carefully, and I held my breath as I waited for him to detect the faint remnants of the spell I had just cast. Thankfully, he didn't notice anything strange and the final traces of the spell faded safely away. Apparently he had only been looking for physical changes. The fool. After assuring himself that I hadn't cracked a lens or something, he put them on and continued on towards his desk.

"You're welcome," I called after him.

He stared back at me intently before mumbling, "Thanks," then turned around and sat down.

Really, is a little common courtesy so much to ask?

*******

My mind is broken from its contemplations of my past ingeniousness when Potter begins to rant.

"Why can't they just leave me the fuck alone?" he rambles, his arms flailing about in agitation. "It's not like they really give a fuck. They don't want to hear about my problems. I'm the bloody Boy-Who-Lived; I can't possibly have problems. So what if the only memories I have of my parents are screams of terror and a flash of green light. So what if I was locked in a cupboard for eleven years. So what if my relatives hate me, starve me, beat me. So what if there's a psychopathic megalomaniac out to kill me. So what if I was forced to watch a boy die in front of me, then was tortured and had my blood used in a spell to return Voldemort to a physical body. None of that should possibly bother me. I'm a hero; I have to be noble and generous and cheerful. Sit there and listen patiently as they rail against the injustices of their lives, but never mention if I'm upset. Why do they even bother to bloody ask if I'm alright if they don't want to hear the fucking truth?"

"Because their feeble minds need the reassurance that everything is fine," I answer with disdainful sarcasm, "and you have become their litmus paper. As long as you are 'alright' then so too is the rest of the world."

Potter had spun around at the first sound of my voice and is now attempting to cause me to spontaneously combust under the heat of his glare. "Malfoy, what are you doing out here?"

"The same as you, I imagine," I pause and tilt my head up to continue my study of the heavens, "I got sick of playing the role others have chosen for me."

"What are you talking about?"

I face him once more, staring into his eyes, which in the moonlight appear completely black. Now is the moment of reckoning. Time to lay my trap, and see if my prey will take the bait. "Did you honestly think that you were the only one whose lot in life had been decided for them, without their consultation, Potter?"

"Oh please, don't try to pull that shit with me Malfoy. I don't know what you're up to, making up some sob story about your life, but I'm not buying it."

"And what 'sob story' are you referring to, Potter? I don't recall crying to you about how terrible my life is, I'll leave that to your fan club. I'm simply getting tired of you constantly walking around with this chip on your shoulder, acting as if you are the only person in the world who hasn't had much of a say in the direction of their life."

"At least none of the rest of you are expected to single-handedly save the whole bloody world!"

"No," I agree, my eyes boring into his own, "some of us are expected to help destroy it."

"As if you aren't looking forward to every minute of it."

At that I give Potter my best you-have-got-to-be-kidding-me glare. "Do you truly know me so little? Really, Potter, I know that you are dense, but can you honestly say that, after knowing me for five and a half years, you actually believe that I would be willing to be subjugated by a half-breed? You honestly think that I, Draco Malfoy, would be content kissing the feet of that walking corpse?"

"Your father is."

Touche. Potter's conversational skills really have improved over the years.

"In case you haven't noticed, I am _** not**_ my father. I can still be numbered among the living, for one thing."

"Huh?"

Sigh. Then again, maybe his skills haven't increased as much as I had thought.

"You mean you haven't heard? Where have you been? My father's death has been the hottest little piece of gossip around Hogwarts since the Holiday Break. Of course, you have been rather wrapped up in yourself of late. As it doesn't really affect you much, I can't say that I'm surprised that you didn't bother to listen to the news. It only leaves you with one less Death Eater to worry about." Here I stand, moving my deliberately emotionless face up to his eye level while conveniently 'forgetting' to mention that it was I who arranged my father's early exit from life. There's no sense overwhelming the poor boy with too many facts all at once.

"Or, more precisely, two less. For whatever my word may be worth, let me assure you that I have no intention of following in my father's footsteps." Moving off into the forest in the general direction of the school, a superior smirk blossoms on my face. "Of course, that doesn't mean that I am going to become a fawning little member of the Church of Harry Potter. I still think you're an insufferable git. And now, if you'll excuse me, this little glade seems to have lost whatever quaint appeal it previously held."

I get about fifteen feet before Potter's voice stops me. I'm impressed. I had expected his over-sized guilt complex to kick in much sooner.

"Malfoy..."

Sighing, I look back at him over my shoulder. "What is it now? Care to insult any more of my dead relatives?"

Chagrin momentarily flashes over Potter's face, but he quickly recovers and puts his now usual mask back up. "I'm sorry," he says, obviously reluctantly, "about your father. I really didn't know."

I snort and shake my head, "Don't bother lying. You're not any sorrier to see him go than I am."

That certainly confounded him. I revel in his utterly bewildered look as he desperately tries to regain his ability to speak. "But, but he was your father! How can his death not bother you?"

I am very proud of myself for biting back the snide comment that that particular piece of stupidity generated. "Potter, my father was an ass. I am quite aware of that fact. A terribly hypocritical one at that, always blustering on about the inferiority of Muggles and Mudbloods, all the while willingly serving one of the very half-breeds that supposedly disgusted him. I might have been able to forgive him that...maybe...but then he made the mistake of trying to order _** me**_ to do the same. That is where I draw the line. No one tells me what to do, what to think, how to feel. No one."

Oh, I have him so thoroughly confused now.

"But you always acted as if you agreed with him, with all your talk about how much you hated Mudbloods, and how Muggle-loving pureblooded wizards were disgracing the rest of you."

"Potter, my father was a Death Eater. How do you think he would have reacted had I actually shown a desire to think for myself?"

"So you don't really hate Muggles and Mud...Muggle-born wizards?"

Gods, he almost sounds disappointed. "Oh, I _** do**_ loathe them, don't get me wrong. Our wizarding blood is becoming more and more tainted by the intermingling of our kinds. And I believe they are parts of lesser castes than pureblood wizards, such as myself. I do not, however, see any point in killing them. As long as they are willing to accept their true positions in life and bow down before me, that is," I drawl, enjoying the shocked look that appears on Potter's face now. I swear, he's shown more emotion in the last ten minutes than he has the entire year.

"Willing to bow down before you?"

I look at him with thinly veiled impatience. I can only do so much 'nice'. "I'm a fucking Slytherin, Potter, also known as ambition personified. I plan on ruling the world someday, I just prefer to have my subjects alive and serving me, not dead and useless."

"Ruling the world?"

"Bloody hell, did someone cast a recanto hex on you, or are you repeating everything I say purely to irritate me? Yes, ruling the world. Everybody needs a hobby, you know. Mine just happens to be world domination."

Potter just shakes his head slowly. "I'm never going to understand you, Malfoy."

"I wouldn't have it any other way," I reply as I continue my journey back to Hogwarts, leaving the seeds I planted to germinate in Wonder Boy's head.

*******

For the next several weeks I was very careful to treat Potter exactly as I always had. Well, I did take some of the hostility out of my insults in an effort to make them seem a little more 'friendly'. I was trying to convince him to join me in my future world takeover, after all. Perhaps a better explanation would be that I treated him as I would any other wizard, or at least, any other wizard from which I wanted something. It came as no surprise then, considering that the rest of the school was either worshipping him as a godling or blaming him for every little bruise life sent their way, that he actually began to seek out my company.

It started out as merely chatting between classes, then moved on to being partners in Care of Magical Creatures and Potions. Snape, assuming no doubt that I wanted to torment Potter, quickly agreed to my request. That incompetent oaf Hagrid was more difficult to convince. I finally had to deliberately provoke one of his little 'pets' to attack me during class. I spent several calculated minutes after the rest of the class had been dismissed threatening to get him fired and his precious pet destroyed before dropping the not-so-subtle hint that I might be willing to keep quite about the whole mess, if he partnered me with Potter for the rest of the year. After a few rather humorous attempts at thought on the part of that dolt, Hagrid finally, with much reluctance, agreed to my terms. As if he had a choice. That monster of his had completely destroyed a set of my robes. Granted, I had made certain to wear my worst set that day, but still.

And so that is how we have arrived at the present. I have yet to ask Potter to become my second-in-command, as it were. There is still a great deal of hostility and a distinct lack of trust between the two of us. We have, however, managed to come to a something of a tentative...truce. Our conversations are now more or less civil, though the insults still tend to fly fast and furious, and he is more likely to be found in my company than with any of his former compatriots. Neither one of us speak of the future, and I am careful to keep my Mudblood bashing to a minimum when in his presence. It is less than a friendship, yet more than the hatred-filled rivalry we had before.

The progress has been achingly slow, but at least there has been progress. This is too critical a piece of my overall plans to risk by being impatient. I am not so egotistic as to believe that I could single-handedly conquer the world. I will need the power, charisma, and, most importantly, the name of the Boy-Who-Lived at my side. All I need do now is wait, and continue to treat him like a 'normal' human. It will not be long until someone or something pushes him that last small bit and destroys what little is left of his patience with the current status quo. And when that happens, he will realize that I am the only one to whom he can turn.

~El Fin~


End file.
